A Savior Beneath These Dirty Sheets
by Heyl13
Summary: It's kind of like fixing the bikes again, only this time he knows you're using him. Post-Eclipse AU.


**_A/N: _**_(__I don't know, you guys. I really don't know.) The title is from the song "Crucify" by Tori Amos. I'd say I don't own Twilight, but that's kind of a given._

* * *

It starts innocently enough.

It can be interpreted as an innocuous gesture, really, so you don't flinch or shift uncomfortably every time his hand lingers on the crook of your neck, barely grazing your collarbone; it stays there for just a moment, so it really could have been considered chaste, but it's not as if you aren't used to him testing your boundaries, sometimes crossing them in the most subtle of ways.

You aren't sure if you're supposed to like that.

More importantly, you don't know whether it matters that you _do_.

The vaguest suspicion that the sheer extent of your selfishness will wind up hurting you both doesn't occur to you until much later; it should have been enough for you bolt through the garage door each time he starts one of his "living/breathing" speeches. It would have been better that way, more honest. But you listen anyway, and you hate yourself, because he actually makes sense.

You have already made up your mind, of course. He knows that. It's almost endearing - in a sick, twisted way - his desperate determination. Sometimes you see it under the haughty, cynical scope of a vampire: lofty, superior, pitying.

"Pass me the socket wrench," he says on a chilly afternoon (it's June, for crying out loud - it shouldn't be _chilly_). The Rabbit needs some last-minute repairs - Jacob can't hide his embarrassment that something _he_ built practically from scratch has failed to work properly - and you couldn't be more grateful even if you tried.

It's kind of like fixing the bikes again, only this time he_ knows_ you're using him.

He appears not to mind.

You single out the wrench among the other tools - you call them all 'wrenches', since it doesn't make a difference to you either way - and place it on the bench beside Jacob. He blinks and gives you a strange look.

You shrug. "It's hard to spend so much time in a place and not learn a few things." You smile.

His gaze lingers minutely, as though he's trying to find what to make of your comment, then returns to the sets of coiled wires that protrude from the open hood. He makes an off-handed remark about the weather, and you're thankful, because you know he's been testing the boundaries again, and it makes you uncomfortable to think about that. (Actually, it doesn't. You always mistake discomfort with the very much pleasant heat that pools in the pit of your stomach when he does as much as "test the boundaries".)

You don't realize that until late one night; it is so sudden and immediate, if you woke seconds later, you'd be screaming. (It would be a different kind of screaming, so you're glad you didn't.)

You know this isn't a regular dream; the greens, browns, and coppers are too vivid to be perceived by your weak, human eyes. You are certain _that _this is what being a vampire feels like. You _do_ feel different than usual, suddenly acutely aware of your surroundings - it could be pouring down on you, and you wouldn't notice - and driven by a unique sense of purpose.

You're in Jacob's garage, which doesn't make sense, because why would you be there now? He's made it pretty clear to you that he has no desire to see your pale, beautiful face (a bloodsucker's face), doesn't want to smell the foul scent (a bloodsucker's scent), doesn't want to wait for the sound of a heartbeat that's not there.

So what the fuck are you doing here?

He's there, which doesn't surprise you, even though it's past midnight - you vaguely recall sneaking out a half hour ago. He sees you even though you don't call his name; the ragged sound of your breathing betrays you. He doesn't speak; his dark eyes settle upon your face, never moving.

_He _does, though. You trace his face with your own eyes, and it seems as though he's floating. (It's because of the wolf; when did Jacob Black become more graceful than you?)

He's moved too fast, and you're now staring into his chest. Instinctively, you drop your gaze to his stomach - which is, by the way, ridged with muscle, but you're only noticing this now.

"Am I still sort of beautiful?" he questions, his voice deep and husky, as he slips a hand in the cradle of your hips, and your heartbeat is thundering in your ear-

_A vampire's heart is dead._

Your eyes follow some vague movement on the ceiling; a dull light penetrates the window. Somehow your hand finds its way between your legs, pressing, circling.

You come before you realize what you're doing.

Unfamiliar sensations curl and unfold in your belly, and your sigh of release is exhilarating.

When you see Jacob the next day - you know Edward disapproves, as if _that_ has made a difference in the past; you visit him every day now - you looks different than he did last night. He's more distant, but perhaps he wasn't distant enough in your dream.

He catches you staring, more than once.

You look like you were caught stealing.

You're pathetic, and you know it.

Two weeks go by before you can even admit it to yourself: you are having wet dreams about Jacob Black.

You can't stand to be around Edward anymore, can't stand _yourself _around him. You _need_ him, but your body wants Jacob. The frigidness of his skin used to excite you - do you remember? - but now it only serves to remind you of Jacob's heat.

You'll get used to it, you think. One day you'll be as icy as him, so it won't feel any different. You will be everything Jacob hates, and - most importantly - you won't be able to dream anymore.

_You can't see him anymore._

When the Chevy rolls to a halt - clanking and chugging - behind his shed, you repeat the mantra you seem to have learned so well:_ This is the last time _(you can't keep using him anymore, it's not fair), but you can't help the inexplicable surge of relief when he encircles you, _locks_ you, into one of his bear hugs.

It feels like home.

"The Rabbit's all set," he mentions casually, though you can see him beaming with pride. He runs a hand through the brand new paint job - he's as anal-retentive with cars as you are with most things - and smiles to himself. "Wanna go for a ride?"

The Rabbit's actually faster than the truck, but you can't hold Jacob a grudge; you love your Chevy too much, and besides he was bound to become a better mechanic. (As if you could _ever_ hate something _he_'d made.)

You never thought about this before - not with him or anyone else - but suddenly you wonder if he thinks of you when he masturbates.

You _know_ he does.

Cool Forks air whips across your face as you speed by dense greenery.

And more greenery.

You've been driving for God knows how long, when he suggests to go to First Beach.

You shake your head, engulfed by the strange sense of purpose from your dream. "No, let's go back to the garage," you say.

You're looking forward to the lingering smell of motor oil on your skin.


End file.
